Damned and Divine
by ForTheLoveOfKakashi
Summary: When two worlds mysteriously collide, war breaks out, but not between the different realms. Asellus becomes the target of Reavers latest conquest, and to her fright  the ice built up around her heart slowly begins to melt. Can she resist the devils charm?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I absolutely do NOT own Saga frontier or Fable, or any of its characters. I simply own the idea of this story to bring two great games and characters, together.

Author's Note: All right everyone so this is my first fan fic ever, so try not to through too many tomato's until you've at least given at chance. And at said time you still don't like it, then feel free but I do hope you'll enjoy. This was just a crazy idea that was burning a hole in my brain and would not go away no matter first chapter is kind of easy going but this will definetly become rated M for language, violence, and adult content (how could you have a Reaver story without any?). You've been WARNED. A bit of a slow start but I promise it will pick up and get MUCH better. And without further adieu...

Castle of Thorns

In Fascinaturu, the Land of Fascination and home to the race known as the mystics, a heated argument echoed throughout dim, empty hallways lit only by the light of the many glowing roses of various colors that grew throughout the castle. Behind a large portcullis like gate, with blackened vines and yet more roses woven throughout its polished silver bars, were the owners of the angry voices.

"My lord, he will not keep his filthy beasts off of my property and they wreck utter havoc, destroying everything in their sight! Something must be done about this menace!" A shrill, accented voice cried. The woman stood off to one side of the blood red carpet, her posture rigid and her face twisted into a unbecoming mask of fury and indignation. Standing to her left was the target of her woes and ire, a man clad in tight black leather pants and a floor length black cloak, his chest bare save for a leather harness adorned with small beaten silver chains. The man flicked a strand of brazen red hair from his eyes and pushed it back into the wild mane that was pulled back into a high up ponytail on his head, wrapped tightly with white ribbon to leave a tuft of hair falling from it in a feudal japanese prince style. A mischievous smile crossed his good looks as he shrugged.

"The hounds she speaks of are new and I've barely had time to train them. I cannot help they took her "garden" for some carnival side show." He admonished, drawing snickers from others among the court of people assembled and a shriek from the noblewoman. She was known for having a very strange taste in art and decor, which was also reflected in her gardening style.

"How dare you..you..."The woman sputtered. "Loathsome, foul, arrogant little.."

"Enough!" An elegant hand sliced through the air, indicating for the room to fall silent. Every single person obediently did so, some shrinking back to the walls in fear, others lowering their eyes and hoping not to incur the wrath of their sovereign. The angered woman herself quelled and look utterly diminished, her overly painted face ashen.

The Charm Lord rose from an ornate thorn that sat in a patch of spire like thorns driving up from the mosaic tiled floor. One of only two mystic lords, the Charm Lord, emperor of magic and collector of beauty, ruled them all and none held more power at their finger tips.

Violet orbs stared out at the two, calculating and silent, nothing given away in their ethereal hues. The silence became deafening and even the black clad man with all his pride felt his heart falter inside his chest.

"Zozma..."

He shivered hearing his name come from such a perfect pair of rosebud pink lips, his blue eyes rising from the floor to meet with his lord's.

"Yes, Asellus?" He quickly realized the folly of his error even before gasps came from all sides, followed by low insults hissed from between clenched teeth for daring to address their beloved lord in such a familiar fashion.

"My lord, forgive me I..." He started but again that pale hand rose into the air to call for his silence.

"It's alright." The Charm Lord said softly.

The tightness in his chest eased and he felt his heart lighten, something of his old friend was still in there then, if he had not been punished. Despite his better efforts, his lips twitched upwards in a smile.

He was relieved when the woman who stood before him, atop the dais and in front of the throne, gave the slightest of smiles in response, even if it did not reach all the way to her eyes.

Asellus, "King" of mystics, let the smile fall from her lips almost immediately, the act of plastering fake emotions on her face only making the harsh reality of something she'd rather not face right now unbearable. Mentally she steeled herself, and continued on with the royal proceedings.

"Until you have taught your new pets better manners, you will keep them on your own grounds. You will pay for the restoration of Lady Francesca's garden."

"Thank you, my lord! How generous of you" The other woman exclaimed, batting her eyes prettily and giving her best performance of gratitude and loyalty she could muster. Zozma bit his tongue, feeling the need to poke fun at the woman's swift change in demeanor.

"Yes, my lord." He said dutifully, lowering his eyes to the floor and bowing deeply, the chains of his harness tinkling softly.

"I trust that the matter is resolved, and will not be brought to my attention again?" Asellus said, hoping they both understood the tone that said she thought this whole ordeal was frivolous.

"Oh yes, yes thank you again! Most certainly a just and fair ruling. " Francesca said, and Asellus could she the gleam of immature victory in her eyes.

"Then you are both dismissed." With a wave of her hand, she turned her attention from them. One of the four young women who surrounded the throne, dressed in simple yet beautiful dresses of flowing white, turned and struck a small golden hammer against a gong, signaling the end of today's business. Little by little the mystics began to fade out of the throne room, turning to shadowed silhouettes, then disappearing completely from view as was the way of the mystics. Asellus waited until each and everyone had left, except for her old friend who now stood solely before her.

"You know, thats going to cost me quite a bit of gold to fix that horror story she calls a garden." Zozma groused as he approached her, scratching the dark stubble that shadowed his jaw. She smiled at him, a little more warmly than before though not enough to count as a true smile.

"Then this will be a good lesson. Maybe next time you won't go causing trouble for your neighbors." Taking a seat in the plush crimson seat of the throne, Asellus propped her elbow on the arm rest and sat her chin casually on the back of her hand as she looked up at him.

"We can only hope." He said with a small smile of his own. He studied her face closely a moment, searching for something. The smile transformed into a concerned frown as he observed the dark circles under her eyes.

"Is everything alright?" He ventured cautiously.

Asellus, caught off guard by the inquiry, stared a moment before. Was everything alright? Someone asking something in such concerned tones these days was truly rare, and she wasn't sure she had an answer. A mirthless chuckle escaped her lips.

"Everything is well." She lied. "Go now, and do try to stay out of trouble. I'd hate to have to severely punish you." Her gaze idly drifting over to one of the numerous roses growing about the castle of thorns, a pure white rose pulsing with brilliant, luminous light.

He hesitated a moment, considering pursuing the matter but decided against it. In the years since his old friend had ascended to the title of Charm Lord, she had begun to slowly change, leeched of the vivacious life she had once been so full of until nothing was left but this frozen, wisp of a woman that sat before him. He knew that he could only be so familiar with her before she would stop him with that cold stare that had become so commonplace now.

"As you will it, my lord." Dipping into another low bow, he, like the others, disappeared into a shadow leaving her to her thoughts.

A long minute passed as she watched the light of the rose ebb in and out of intensity. Finally she tore her eyes away, a discontent sigh coming from her lips as she too, faded out of the throne room.

In the privacy of her grand bedroom, Asellus wandered over to the arched window, placing her hand on the smooth pane of glass. Her violet hues looked out at skies of Fascinaturu, the deep lavender sky was the same lonely shade as it always was, with black clouds streaked across its great expanse. All was as it always was, and always would be, eternally frozen in place. Nothing ever changed here in this cold superficial place, where the people could only bicker and fight, constantly at each others throats. Well that wasn't entirely true, some things did change, but it wasn't necessarily for the better. Fifteen long years of ruling over this devious race of people had begun to take its toll on her spirit. Shortly after rebelling against Orlouge, the former Charm Lord, and over throwing him from his place of power where he'd abused his powers to manipulate the surrounding countries into bowing to his will, and kidnapping multitudes of young women whom he imprisoned here in this very castle. He'd collected them as one would rare treasures, displaying them like inanimate objects to showcase his wealth and power, arrogantly showing the world his impeccable tastes.

Although he'd been incredibly selective, choosing only the most unique of beauties, over his extremely long immortal life hundreds of women had been robbed of their homes and lives, whisked away to this country where time never moved. When Orlouge had lost interest in one, he'd simply put them into a deep slumber, placing their bodies into crystal coffins throughout the many rooms of the castle and awaken them whenever it struck his fancy.

Asellus, being born a human, had found this monstrous. How could one presume to alter lives on such a large scale, bending so many to his will and acting as selfishly as a spoiled child? Only by what she could only surmise had been some divine retribution levied out for some heinous thing she'd done in a past life had she been brought into this world. On the way to run a small errand for her aunt who'd raised her, Asellus had been run over by Orlouge's carriage. Perhaps due to guilt or some other more whimsical emotion, he had deigned to give her a transfusion of his own royal mystic blood, granting her pardon from the beckoning darkness and immortal life.

Eleven years had passed while she laid unconscious in one of the unused rooms, and upon waking had learned of her fate and that she was expected to become the Charm Lord's heir, waiting around to take up his mantle once he tired of his crown.

Bittersweet memories twisted her lips into a sad smile as she remembered back then, the friends she had made along the way and the strength they had given her to go on when she thought she had nothing left. One woman stood out among the others in her memories, one of Orlouge's many mistresses, Princess Whiterose. Words like kind, elegant and warm could only begin to describe the the rose princess who had quickly became as close as a sister to her during those trying times. The image of her sweet face rose unbidden at the forefront of Asellus's mind, causing a fresh tidal wave of regret and guilt to swell and threaten to drown her.

Gasping, she clutched at her chest in an vain attempt to banish the aching hollowness that struck suddenly. Leaning forward, she pressed her forehead to the glass and stared wide eyed at the floor panting, waiting for the pain and remorse to recede while battling the tears that started to swim in her eyes. When it finally began to

ease away, a strained laugh somewhere between melancholy and madness bubbled up from her as the hot tears spilled down her pale cheeks. So it seemed the coldness of eternity had not yet claimed her heart, and she could still yet feel human emotion. But for how long?

How long does it take one to become a self absorbed monster?


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do NOT own SaGa Frontier or Fable, just my idea to bring these characters together!

Authors note: This chapter is just an introduction to the lead man, so you may feel its a little slow but I'm just getting warmed up! ^_~ It'll get much better, and in the next few chapters this story will be deserving of its M rating. I'm just warning you. And now...

No Rest For The Wicked

Three hundred years.

Never in the three hundred years he'd lived through had he seen a larger orgy than the one that had taken place late last night in his Millfield mansion. Reaver stretched languorously detangling himself from numerous limbs, no less than six naked bodies slumbering in his bed. Always a great way to start any morning, he thought. As he removed himself from the center of the marvelously lascivious picture, not a single soul so much as moved, for before taking part in last nights activities they had all been deep in their cups, and would all probably have one hell of a hangover. He sure did.

Rising from the edge of the bed, he carefully stepped over more nude bodies that littered the plush carpeted floor of his pleasure chamber, making his way to a dresser of deep mahogany and placed his hands on its polished surface. Peering into the mirror, he admired the devilishly handsome man staring back with a deeply satisfied smirk. Even with the sleep and sex disheveled hair, he was truly a sight to behold.

Grabbing an ivory toothed comb, he began to run it through his deep brunette locks until it was luminescent perfection and styled it as he normally did.

"Thats better." He murmured to himself when something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He watched as a few of his guests begin to stir on the bed, the buxom blonde and the energetic red head he'd favored last night. Turning and leaning back against the dresser behind him, his deep emerald hues ran over their bodies and he felt the stirrings of lust begin to course through his veins again. Mentally he did a quick check list of the things he needed to do today as the head of Reaver Industries, but immediately brushed them off with a lewd smile, remembering something in particular he'd seen the red head do that he very much wanted done to himself. Work always came second for Reaver.

Approaching the bed again, he reveled in the way the two women looked up at him hungrily as he approached. They smiled invitingly, the blonde unwinding herself from the red head and holding out her arms to him. Reaver leaned over, running his hand over curvaceous body.

"Good morning, my dears..."

That afternoon and another hairstyle later, Reaver was in fine mood as he walked through one of his larger factories in Bowerstone Industrial. Twirling his cane about deftly in one black gloved hand, he listened as the executive in charge of this particular facility and his assistant went over the humdrum necessities that came with running a business. Maintenance costs, status quo's, and rival companies were at the top of his list, rambling on about a particular company that had somehow managed to pull slightly ahead in musket sales.

"It must be that new advertising campaign they've started recently." The man was saying, flipping through some of the ledgers in his gnarled hands. His pallid blue eyes darting nervously over to gauge Reavers reaction to this news, who seemed to be only half listening as he continued to idly spin his cane as they walked. Taking a breath to steady himself, he forged ahead about the specific numbers swiftly, his heart hammering inside his old chest.

Reaver immediately came to an abrupt halt, letting his cane slide through his hand and grasped the top, striking its wooden base to the stone floor, causing a sharp crack to , the executive and the younger man, who had been following closely behind, jumped nearly out of their filthy clothes. Despite what his executive may have thought, he had indeed been listening very closely, ever the observant one.

"Let me see those." He demanded in an irked, clipped tone, reaching out with his hand expectantly.

"Y-yes sir!" The older man quickly handed him the ledgers, taking his hat from his head. He began to wring it between his hands as his boss poured through them, his dark eyes scrutinizing down to the very last detail. A bead of sweat formed on his brow as he waited, heart in his throat.

As he skimmed over most of it, Reaver began to notice little discrepancies in several places. Little sums missing from everywhere, vague once over explanations being the only thing given for most of them. His perfectly formed brows drew together irately, and he fixed his cold eyes on the factory executive, who was now promptly "sweating bullets". Reaver had always been amused by said term.

Throwing the older gentlemen off balance, he smiled pleasantly as he passed the documents to his cane hand. Turning slightly, he saw the scared assistants grimy face looking confused as he stared between the two of them, jumping again when he noticed the attention was on him.

"Fancy a promotion?" Reaver asked jovially.

"What?" Both men asked blankly at once, caught off guard.

The next thing either of them heard was a thunderous boom that reached all the way to the factories nine story high ceiling. The senior exec. was dead before his eyes could even widen with horror, a dark red spot blossoming on his shirt. Watching the corpse slump to the ground, Reaver blew the smoke from tip of his beloved Dragonstomper 48. with a sadistic smirk.

The younger man's jaw fall and a little yelp was the only sound he made, his eyes as round as saucers. He hadn't even seen the pistol being whipped out, it'd happened so fast!

Reaver tsked softly, and pivoted on his heel. Stepping in front of the shocked apprentice, he shoved the ledgers into his hands with a smile that made the younger man's heart shutter.

"Congratulations, my dear fellow!" He moved past him then, heading towards the exit, satisfied with the outcome. Stopping short of the door, he said casually over his shoulder.

"Business rule number one. Don't steal from Reaver." He continued through the door into the open streets just outside, the people sullenly shuffling about as they worked. They all seemed to pick up the pace when they saw him, however, which only caused him to smirk. Climbing into his carriage, he ordered the driver to take him to Bowerstone Palace. He was expected to make a counter proposal against one of the many do-gooders who was petitioning for a new hospital in the Old Quarter. He'd already taken the liberty of having blueprints for a gambling hall made, instead.

"My, my, my this is getting a bit old." He murmured to himself, knowing that his idea would probably be shot down by the new ruler of Albion, being the king was an annoying do-gooder as well. Things had flourished quite nicely under Logan's rule, he remembered fondly that days when he'd been handed the reigns of industry, allowed to do whatever he wished so long as it brought mountains of gold into the treasury.

He felt the itch to travel begin to appear, brought on by the lack of excitement. Sure parties and orgies every week were nice to pass the time, but he longed to set out to lands unknown again, the spray of sea salting the air and the wind in his hair. It'd been too long since he'd last ventured out in search of new substances and uninhibited people. Maybe he'd go travel to Samarkand again? The image of dark skinned beauties waltzed into his mind, and with a lewd smile he decided that would be just the thing to cure his itch. Right after his audience with the king, he'd make plans to leave.

"Nothing had better bloody come up, either." Reaver said grimly. He wanted nothing to stand in the way of his plans, and planned on shooting anything or anyone that tried to stop him.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I own neither SaGa Frontier nor Fable! I don't own the lyrics just below, either. They're from Our Great Divide by Tarja.

Authors note: If you've read this far, thanks! Our two leads in the story haven't met yet as I've been trying to get the story set up, but I promise they will in the next chapter and this story will be long enough to make up for the slow start!

**Albion Fascinated**

Dark blue sea, calling me.

Songs of waves, keep me safe.

Sky's so deep, there's no end

The moon still asleep, the bed of stars for me

How can I see through your eyes my destiny?

I fall apart.

You bleed for me.

How can I see through your eyes our worlds collide?

Open your heart, to close our great divide.

A chilled breeze sighed eerily across the dark nighttime waters of Albion, a thin veil of shimmering mist hovering just above the oceans surface, illuminated by the moons wane silver glow. Far out to sea loomed the daunting image of the Spire, a relic of the old kingdom recreated by Lord Lucien over fifty years ago, before the late King Sparrow had defeated him. It remained mostly vacant for all this time, save for the mysterious seeress Theresa that had claimed it for her own.

Its power and magic, though dormant like that of a sleeping behemoth, thickly permeated the air surrounding it for nearly five miles, causing any who drew close enough's hairs to stand up on the back of their necks with a prickle of energy. All seemed quite this night, far from most of the population of Albion. Only a small island settlement that had just begun to flourish was close enough to behold the Spire in "close" detail.

Dispersing itself from the rest, a cloud of mist rose gently, condensing and moving away. Silver and glistening, the ethereal wisp continued to float ever higher into the sky, drawing closer to the lone tower. It moved slowly but with purpose, finally reaching great heights where a balcony jutted out from the rest of the grey stone. Two thick oaken doors barred the entrance, but this mattered not for it simply flowed through the small crevice between the wood and floor.

Being inside seemed to excite it and it picked up speed as it slithered its way through the corridors, remaining cautious however by sticking closely to the corners where the floor met the walls. This strange collection of dewy droplets that seemed to have a mind and purpose of its own cascaded up the last set of stairs that led to the main chamber, where wishes could indeed come true. Slipping underneath another locked door it was finally there, and it...seemed to actually shiver in triumph.

"You've arrived sooner than I'd anticipated." Came the calm, aged voice of a woman. There in the center stood the blind seeress, dressed in the usual burgundy gypsies robes with the cowl pulled low over her brow. The magic of Will seemed palpable here, glowing in rich blue tones on the floor where her feet were. The wisp of mist, of course, said nothing but crept forward slowly as if testing its ground, seeing how far it could get before retaliation would be paid.

"Knowing the many possibilities of what the future can hold I know fighting against the current can sometimes be futile, but I still must ask. Is there nothing I can do to dissuade you?" Theresa asked in a steady voice, not the least amount of concern or fear could be gleaned from her tones.

When nothing came to pass, the wisps approach became bold and it coursed forward single-mindedly. Misty tendrils separated from the main body,one shooting out, then two and three until four distinct patches were discerable, elongating and thickening as the rest of it began to grow in size until it was ten times as large as it had been. Slowly but surely solidifying from mere condensation to something more tangible. Theresa, though blind, knew exactly what was happening to the intruder and let out a small sigh.

"Then so be it. But you should know that there will be ones who come to stop you, and there will be consequences for your actions." With that last statement, the lines of Will at her feet started to glow ever brighter until it was blinding in its intensity. Once the light had faded, she was nowhere to be seen.

Unaffected by her words or her flight, the wisp continued to take shape, the tendrils growing extra, smaller wisps. Slowly these smaller tendrils began to glow weakly, and fingers began to clearly form. The soft light working its way up to expose a wrist from the thick condensation, then an arm. The glow started at the end of each tendril until a full body was visible when the individual lights met in its center. Another bright blast of light exploded in the Spire's main chamber, and when its light was gone a man was alone in the room. On his hands and knees with his bare body exposed, the last remnants of the mist clung to his skin like sweat before sinking into his skin.

A long minute passed with nothing but his deep greedy breathes of air as he tried to sate the need for oxygen. Gently, he sat back to rest on his knees, rising from his hands as otherwordly silver blue eyes took in the sight before him. His lips twitched upward ever so slightly and he stood then, long iridescent lilac tresses falling to his knees. His eyes roamed up and down every little nook and cranny of the room, his smile forming into a full blown grin of maliciousness. Glee and madness welled within him, and he threw his head back to laugh. He had done it. He'd passed between countless realms to the beckoning power he'd felt within this Spire, and now it's power was his to command.

"The only consequences of my actions will be to watch all who stand against me fall to their knees." He said belatedly in response to Theresa's words. Though she did not stand before him, he had a feeling she could still hear him.

"My enemies shall know my vengeance, and their followers will bow before me as they should, or everything will be razed from the lands."

Turning, he walked into the center of the chamber. He could feel the Will coursing around him, pulsing and cool in its natural state. He could also feel how it rejected him, trying to propel him out. Laughter burst from his cruel lips, it thought to remove him? Eons had forged his Mystic blood and soul in the fires of Fascinaturu, and now with this ancient relic under his command, nothing could stop him.

"Are you ready, Asellus? Can you feel me now, so far away?" He spoke to the open air.

"I cannot wait to see what you've become, if you've clung to your foolish idylls as valiantly as you did back then. But perhaps,..." he smirked "you've come to know the pleasure wielding power like mine as I did. I shall find out soon enough."

His lids fluttered closed, and he placed his palms together in front of his chest, concentrating on the magic that flowed by right of birth within his own veins and fusing it with the Will power this land had to offer, so conveniently saturated into this spire as it was. Massive power welled up within him, and when he opened those shining silver blue eyes the land of Albion fell silent for a single heartbeat. Nothing moved, not one minuscule sound throughout the entire land was made in the second that seemed to last a small eternity. Far, far away in the pubs of different towns, where the night owls still drank away there problems, the people glanced warily at each other, unknowing.

"Come to me, Asellus." He said in the barest of whispers.

The dormant power of the spire roiled in protest only once before a shockwave of Will infused with the power of Mystic magic burst from the Spire. Gale force winds were born from the force and howled through the night sky, rippling the ocean water into waves and, once it reached the nearest land, ravaging tree, causing them twist and dance, stripping them of both leaf and branches. The ground trembled beneath the immense power surging from the Spire, older less stable buildings and homes crumbled instantly.

As his furious wrath wrecked havoc across the land, he concentrated even harder on the image of his former home he'd summoned up. With the image complete in his mind, he mentally tugged at invisible bonds that linked him to his home like a puppeteer did the strings of a marionette.

He would see the impudent whelp that ended his reign as Charm Lord so very, very soon.

Asellus lay wide awake amidst the royal purple, satin sheets of her bed, staring up at the ceiling of her lonely room. Contemplative, she worried the buttons of her nightgown, twisting and turning them between slender fingers absent-mindedly. The anniversary of the day Whiterose sacrificed herself was fast approaching, and as always this time of year Asellus grew broody, her heart aching. If it hadn't been for her, Whiterose would have never had to stay behind in the nightmarish Dark Labyrinth. It was a twisted realm that many never escaped once they were unfortunate enough to find themselves lost in its shadowy depths and a terrible payment must be made if you did find the exit.

A bitter sigh escaped her lips and she rolled onto her side to gaze out the window she'd left open. Though tormented with anguish and grief over the loss of the only person she had ever felt so close with, Asellus had buried it deep within her heart years ago. The yearning that plagued her now was for something she couldn't quite comprehend. Loneliness, like the most insidious poison, coursed through her once human veins along with the Mystic taint that had been gifted to her by the previous Charm Lord, Orlouge. Briefly she wondered if everything would have been better off if he'd just left her on the streets after his carriage had ran her over.

"How depressing..." She mused, and in a fit of restlessness, flung back the sheets. Wandering over to the window, she hoped to relish the warm breeze that had been blowing about so pleasantly today. The long sheer curtains danced lazily about, caught up in the gentle winds that blew in and Asellus sighed again. Small pleasures seemed to be the only thing she could find these days, and so she clung tenaciously to them.

She placed her hands on the window sill, letting her lashes slide shut slowly and inhaled the sweet, clean air. Minutes passed her by as she stood there, trying to rid herself of her melancholic state, when in the back of her mind some niggling little worry came up. Something wasn't right, she thought but was at a loss why though. When she shivered a moment later, she knew. The air that had once been blissful with its lazy warmth had quickly took a dive and picked up in its intensity.

As it gave her cheeks its chilly kiss, Asellus's eyes snapped open, alert. There was something sinister being carried in on this fell wind and, as it continued to grow in strength, whipped about her long hair until the silken strands stung her face. What was going? She could sense something was happening, but had no clue what.

"Ildon?" She called out to one of her most trusted guards, once a comrade, but was drowned out by the sudden howl of the wind and a deafening crash. The floor beneath her feat trembled violently and she lost her balance, falling to the floor as glass bottles that had been sitting on the nearby table plummeted to the mosaic tiled ground and shattered. Asellus covered her face with her arms to protect it from any debris, and somewhere in her shocked mind wondered faintly what the hell was going on.

The groaning protest of the castle walls and the quaking seemed to last forever as she lay there, curled up on the floor pitifully while furniture and portraits were toppled from their places. The freezing air poured in and brought with it a surge of magical energy that left a heavy metallic tang on her tongue that tasted akin to blood. Her body began to shiver uncontrollably and it wasn't just because the nightgown wasn't suited for cold weather. Her skin tingled with the strange power that surged through the air. As her heart squeezed painfully tight inside her chest, she could help but strangely feel like this was a vicious attack directed at her.

And as swiftly as it had come, it stopped. The castle was blessedly still and the soul chilling wind had completely died off. The only noise she could hear know was the shuffle sound of a few portraits as they swung back and forth against the wall. Lowering her arms from her face, she opened her eyes to give a quick peek at the damage. Her room looked as if it had been ransacked.

Gingerly pushing her self up to a sitting position, careful of the broken shards of glass on the floor. A large armoire lay flat next to her, and she counted herself lucky that she'd not fallen a few feet more to her left. What had just happened? She starred blankly at her chaotic room, numb . It wasn't until she heard voices loudly calling out followed by the sound of many footsteps.

"Lady Asellus!" One familiar voice called out, Ildon.

Her bedroom door swung open to reveal her former comrade, and his dark blue eyes scanning the room until they located her. He rushed to her, jumping over collapsed furniture and kneeling beside her

"Lady Asellus, are you alright?" He asked, his normally cool, calm face a mask of worry and concern. If Ildon's composure was shaken, then whatever had just occurred was most troublesome indeed.

"I'm unharmed." When he didn't move and continued to look her over cautiously, she rolled her eyes in annoyance.

"Really, I'm alright." To prove it, she stood and tried to hide the shaky feeling in her legs. Her heart was still pounding swiftly, the shot of adrenaline pumping through her blood making her feel a little breathless. Ildon rose with her, trying to take her by the arm and assist but she merely batted his hands away. She wasn't made out of glass and definetly wouldn't break as easy.

Rastaban, another of her loyal followers, decked out in his english noblemen attire complete with a foppish pile of white frills at his throat and wrists, stepped in. He looked as if he were about to say something as he approached her, but when his eyes flicked briefly to the window but quickly did a double take, stopping short while his eyebrows pinched together in bewilderment.

Ildon and Asellus shared a bewildered between each other, Rastaban being short on words something strange in itself.

"Your majesty..."He said, not even taking his off whatever held his interest as he addressed his sovereign. Mechanically he wondered over to the window.

Thrown off guard by his unusual demeanor, Asellus turned to find out what was so important that he didn't show the sickeningly sweet, gushing respect he usually lavished on her. An involuntary gasp came from her, and all she could do, like Rastaban, was stare out the window. What in the world was going on?

The gambling hall proposal had been denied, just as Reaver knew it would be. But it couldn't hurt to try, right? Maybe one day after the King had tired of the respectable monarch act he would then see the potential of his ideas.

The debate had ran on a little late and the King had resigned himself to allow him to stay in one of the guest rooms, despite how he may have felt about him. Smirking, Reaver kicked up his feet on the ottoman in front of him and leaned further back into the comfortable wingback chair that sat in front of the fireplace. He watched the flames dance and listened to the crackle, bringing a fine crystal goblet to his lips and draining it of the dark crimson wine. He found the King's frustration with having to put up with him quite amusing.

After taking the pretty little maid who'd escorted him to his room to bed, with little convincing, he'd sated his immediate sexual urges and sent her on her merry way. She'd been fine to pass a few hours with, but Reaver found himself growing a bit bored though she surely hadn't been lacking in the skill department. This happened every so often, he would tire of the usual men and wenches of Albion and go off seeking a new, temporary stomping ground. With any luck the weather would be suitable to set sail and he would be on his way to Samarkand this time tomorrow.

Thinking of the dark beauties that awaited him, he felt the stirrings of lust return with renewed vigor. Sitting the goblet aside, he stood from the stair and went to the wardrobe stood in the corner, intent on collecting his coat and going to find another willing body. He opened the door and reached in, but stopped suddenly as an odd tingle of energy crawled up from the base of his spine to his neck.

"What the..." He barely had time to mutter and attempt to look around his room before the floor beneath his feet lurched suddenly, nearly knocking him from his feet. Grabbing hold of the large piece of solid furniture in front of him, he shot a glance around the room. What the bloody hell was going on, an earthquake? Albion rarely suffered this natural phenomenon. His gaze landed on the closed window and took quick note of the tree being whipped about like a rag doll.

Within a few short minutes things finally calmed down, and Reaver stood momentarily shocked. Gathering his wits, he went to the window and slid it open, poking his head out to see several of the guards and other castle folk picking themselves up off the ground. Perhaps the castle was under attack and that had been mortar fire?

"Hello down there!" He called out, his voice cheerful and calm as if nothing had happened. A shaking, pale faced guard turned and glanced up towards the window.

"Yes, you! Are we under attack?"

The young man just stared up at him, his eyes a bit glazed over. Really, what were the defenders of Albion coming to these days if they couldn't keep their wits about them. Impatiently Reaver drummed his fingers on the windowsill to keep the urge from grabbing his pistol and shooting the man. It'd do him no good to anger the King at the moment.

"I-I don't k-know, sir!" The guard managed to say after his brain had decided to get with the program. His uninformed response irked Reaver to new heights.

"What do you mean you don't know? Is it really that hard to tell if..." He trailed off as he noticed something unusual, his eyes drifting upward. What he saw briefly made him wonder if his drink had been spiked with some hallucinogens as some sort of devious trick.

Miles past the royal gardens and the city of Bowerstone that was nestled so closely to the castle, even past his factories with their tall chimneys with bellowing smoke clouds, he starred in awe. The dark midnight blue of the night sky seemed to bleed together with an intense purple one, black clouds dotted across it. The clash of colors in the sky was eerily beautiful in a way. He thought he could just make out a towering black structure near the Mistpeak mountains.

Slowly, his lips turned upward into a smile.

"It would seem my wish for excitement has been granted."


	4. Chapter 4

Reavers Conquest

Come to me

I cried

I need you.

I am seeking

the gates unfold inside

my lost soul

in the dark.

Far beneath my breath

I'm burning at my core.

Show me how

let me see beyond

I will find my crimson deep

The sound of booted footfalls echoed softly in the castle hallway as Reaver, followed by his newest valet Hartley, made their way to the throne room. A week had passed since the sudden appearance of what seemed to be another world with Albion. All he knew was that somewhere in the Mistpeak Mountains now stood a mysterious castle that seemed to be made of blackened vines and thorns, or at least thats what the reports from the scouts the King had sent out said.

He'd postponed his plans of setting sail, staying behind and offering his services in order to "assess this new threat to Albion." He couldn't deny the rush of anticipation and excitement that he felt growing since this recent development, despite many others concerns. So far no one had seen hide nor hair of anyone from inside of that castle or the small village settled just out front of its gates. Every day that went by, the fear fueled tension grew ever stronger as they waited for something to happen.

"Hartley, you did say the King had some surprise visitors seeking an audience with him this morning, did you not?" He asked conversationally, producing his black leather gloves from his inner coat pocket. He didn't usually make small talk with his staff, but he was in a grand mood. Setting his cane in the crook of his arm, he quickly slid on the gloves onto his hands before taking hold of his cane and walking with it again.

"Yes, Master Reaver! I was in the kitchens, fetching your breakfast this morning sir, and I heard some of the other servants talking about a couple of strange lookin' blokes. Some of 'em seem to be whispering to one another that these gents' are from that forbidding lookin' palace that just popped up in the mountains."

Instantly curious, Reaver slyly glanced over at the valet, coming to a halt outside of the closed doors to the throne room.

"And what perchance would lead them to such a farfetched notion like that?" He inquired thoughtfully, flicking a speck of dust from his immaculately tailored coat sleeve to mask his keen interest. He didn't give much credence to the talk of lowly servants, dubious that the perceived "invaders" would come to call so casually, but this week was anything from ordinary. Anything was possible, he supposed.

"Well, thats the juicy bit o' gossip." Hartley said eagerly, rubbing his hands together as a smile broke onto his craggy face. "Apparently these two don't look like anyone's ever seen 'round these parts, real strange and exotic like. 'Course I didn't lay eyes on 'em me self, this is just what I heard."

"You don't say..." A faint, mischievous smile played upon Reavers lips as he considered this tidbit of news. He did so love to put his skills to the test when encountering other cultures, especially the amorous kind.

"Well no better way to find out then to grace this little meeting with my presence."

Ildon stoically stood by Rastaban's side with the patience born of an extreme longevity as they waited for the man sitting in the golden throne before them to decide on their proposal. With their abilities nulled, the two mystic men had come all the way by horseback, much to Rastaban's chagrin who complained nonstop about wanting to take one of their carriage's and then by foot the rest of the way through the city of Bowerstone, as they'd come to learn its name. While his foppish counterpart had cherished the attention they had been receiving since setting foot in this place, preening and smiling for everyone, Ildon had kept his usual cool attitude. Not one person had been able to keep their eyes to themselves as they passed by, and the castle folk here were even worse despite their efforts to be discreet about it.

Case in point, as they'd waited in a small antechamber after requesting an audience with the foreign monarch, a maid had polished the same spot on one of the ornamental suits of armor that lined one wall for nearly twenty minutes as she watched them suspiciously. He'd quickly rectified the situation with a dark glower in her direction that sent the woman packing. Of course Rastaban had berated him, saying that he didn't want their regal Mystic name sullied by acting barbarically. Ildon had just shot him the same expression he'd given the woman and had remained silent, even through the ostentatious introductions Rastaban made once this "Hero King of Albion" had finally received them.

"So you say that your people had nothing to do with the events that took place last week?" The King asked softly, rubbing his temples in thought as his tired brown eyes studied both of their faces for a reaction, looking for any trace of deceit. He found none.

"I must concede that we were just as surprised as you were, your majesty. Our lord now sends us humble servants as ambassadors in hopes that we may form the bonds of friendship and peace. With any luck, our combined forces may be able to discover the how and why of this shocking integration of our worlds. That is, if you are so inclined..." Rastaban left off meaningfully, his eyes becoming hooded.

The King watched them for another long moment before sighing and raking a hand through his disheveled brown locks. A look of relief washed over his face, a smile dawning as he rose from the throne and walked down the dais steps. Ildon stiffened at his approach, ready to defend if need be. What looked like a friendly gesture could be a ruse, as he'd learned the hard way in the devious court of mystics. He hadn't missed the special looking gauntlets that adorned the King's forearms.

"I am pleased to know that we can go about this civilly. My people have suffered much these past few years, and my kingdom has only just begun its journey on the road to recovery. I gladly accept your offer of friendship and..."

The Kings words were suddenly cut off when the sound of the glossy doors being thrown open. Ildon half turned sharply, casting a wary glance over his pauldron clad shoulder. A man dressed in a white coat, brown vest and black boots waltzed in, a jovial smile on his cocky looking face and a ridiculously tall top hat that added to his already impressive height. Immediately Ildon didn't like this man, a fact that was only compounded when the cane wielder breezed by them on his way to the King, and in doing so giving both Rastaban and him a lingering once over look, that paused briefly on their moss green hair, with his dark emerald eyes that bordered on lechery.

"Greetings and salutations, my liege!" He began pleasantly, tipping his hat slightly to the monarch instead of bowing.

_He seems sure of himself._ Ildon thought, cutting his eyes briefly to view his fellow mystic. His lips were pressed in a thin line and his neatly plucked eyebrows drawn ever so slightly together. Rastaban was notorious for being a complete prude when it came to formality, manners, and etiquette and Ildon could tell that the man who'd so rudely interrupted had already earned his usually even tempered comrades ire.

"Reaver..."The King acknowledged, his tone somewhere between exasperation and reluctance and the once pleasant smile falling steadily.

"And to what do I owe this rather untimely interruption?" Inquired the King.

"My, my is that any way to great a friend in the morning?" Reaver said blithely, only earning a hard look from his King.

"Well someone's in fine form today...Either way, a little birdie told me that you had an interesting pair of visitor's..."

"Yes, this is Rastaban and Ildon." The King smoothly interjected, knowing where the insufferable Reaver was going with this. Turning to them, he said."

"Gentlemen, this is Reaver, Albion's head of industries."

"A pleasure." Rastaban replied sagely, causing the other man to smirk and say.

"Like wise."

Turning his attention back to the man in white, the King forged on with the introductions..

"They're from..." He began but then trailed off, and visibly blanched after realizing he couldn't remember the strange name of their home. His eyes drifted over to them questioningly.

"Fascinaturu, your majesty." Ildon supplied quietly, no hint of being insulted in his dignified voice.

"Ah, yes. Sorry about that." The King apologized quickly, addressing Reaver once more.

"That is the name of their land. They've come bearing tidings of peace and hope to foster a friendship with us as we work together to solve this mystery. Three days from now, we'll be hosting a ball to greet their sovereign and negotiate a peace treaty."

"Oh, how marvelous!" Exclaimed Reaver, dark green eyes now merrily lit with this delightful prospect.

"Then it is settled, I simply must be the one to throw this extravaganza." He declared, loudly rapping the end of his cane twice on the marble floor. Ildon noticed the King pale a little at this.

"I really don't think thats necessary. I'm sure Hobson can manage just fine." Assured the King, trying to dissuade the man.

"Nonsense! I insist your highness. This is truly something to commemorate, and therefore I feel as leader and overseer of Albion's industry, I feel only I can give this the utmost attention to detail and keen eye for perfection it so truly deserves. What could be more industrious than two different people's coming together for a better tomorrow?"

Ildon resisted the urge to scoff at the artful, flowery speech. Despite only having just met this Reaver moments ago, he could tell that the man held his own self serving council. The King's less than favorable response to him confirmed these suspicions.

"Very well then..." Was the King's resigned acceptance.

A triumphant smirk played across Reavers face, causing the small black heart painted on his upper left cheekbone to crinkle slightly.

"Splendid! Well then I'll just take my leave now and begin to get the preparations immediately underway. So much work to be done in such little time. Tatty-bye, gentlemen!" And with a final tip of his top hat and flutter of two white coat tails, the strange man left just as quickly as he'd arrived, a shorter man attired in black, his servant no doubt, bowing deeply to them and shutting the doors to the throne room behind his master.

The King watched him leave, looking a little bewildered before turning an assuring smile on them once again.

"Will you be leaving then, or should I have some rooms prepared for you?"

Rastaban beamed, happy to have an invitation to stay.

"I shall stay, your highness, and assist with the ball preparations. Ildon here can carry the message back to our lord."

Ildon sighed mentally. He should have known he'd be the one to get volunteered for the long trek back.

The next three days went by in a flurry of activity as servants, spurred on by fear of Reaver, double timed on their chores, cleaning the castle until it sparkled twice as much as usual and decking out several of the better guest rooms with special finery. All went smoothly save for when he butted heads with the mystic man who'd stayed behind. Rastaban, if he recalled correctly, not the he particularly cared to remember others names. The man was a veritable perfectionist, not that Reaver himself wasn't, the only difference was their opinions.

Everything from the floral arrangements to the what style of silverware that would be used for the feast that night was subject to Rastaban's lofty ideals. He kept spouting off that everything had to be perfect for their Charm Lord, the "pursuer of beauty and protecter of the rose", as he'd so modestly put it.

Good thing for him there was only one hour left until the ball, because if Reaver had to put up with him one more day, he was sure that he would have found the man's room and put a bullet into the handsome face of his. His patience and his trigger finger had been sorely tested.

"You're hat, Master Reaver." Hartley said from somewhere behind him. Reaver dapped a thin bristled brush dipped in liquid makeup against his sharp cheekbone, masterfully painting the trademark black heart on. After the finishing touch, he sat the brush down on the nearby vanity table and took a step back from the long golden framed mirror in front of him. Vainly admiring himself a long minute, he smirked as his thoughts returned to the one thing that had occupied them so thoroughly the past three days. The Charm Lord.

His curiosity had been piqued by the odd name, and with every adoring praise Rastaban had lavished on their Mystic sovereign, it had steadily grown into a full blown obsession. It had been so long since he'd felt even the least bit competitive, but now he couldn't help but feel so. The man had over three hundred princess's in that palace of his, as he'd come to find out by way of the Mystic ambassador's bragging. Reaver begrudgingly admitted to himself that he felt a very small bit of respect for the man. But there was one thing he was dearly looking forward to tonight. One-upping him. How, he wasn't sure yet. Perhaps he'd take the spotlight from him, making sure everyone's attention was directed at him and stealing his women. Or maybe...Reaver smirked deviously, he'd charm the Charm Lord and seduce him into bed. Tapping his gloved finger thoughtfully to his lips, he gave it a moments thought before deciding to do all of the above. His thoughts began to progressively slide down hill after that, imaging all the fun things he wished to do to...

"S-sir..." Hartley stammered nervously.

Shooting him a dark look for interrupting his pleasant daydream, Reaver arched a brow questioningly.

"It's time for the ball. People have started to gather down at the front of the castle, and the guests of honor should be arriving any minute now."

Glancing out the clock, he was a little startled to realize he'd already passed the hour by. Good thing he was immortal because my how time flied when admiring one's self.

"Let us be off then." Pivoting on his heel, he collected a much shorter top hat than his usual one from the bed and placed it onto his perfectly groomed dyed black locks. He continued on to the door, Hartley scurrying quickly to open it for him and handing him his silver tipped black cane. As the two made their way to the front of the castle to greet their future allies, Reaver could barely contain the eager smile that claimed his lips.

The dark black clouds that hung over Fascinaturu had been swept in on a cool breeze from the north, now dotted the fading twilight sky above Bowerstone and the castle. Reaver stepped outside, joining the mass of people that were already waiting to greet the Mystic court. Everyone from lowly peasants milling about further down the road to nobles in the courtyard out front of the castle doors, to the King who stood patiently at the top of the stairs.

Strolling up casually to stand by the Hero Kings side, whom he must say looked quite good decked out in the complete royal ensemble of deep blue and gold he wore tonight.

"Your majesty." Reaver spoke, smiling down at the shorter man.

"Reaver." He said, without turning his eyes from the path. He looked so intense, almost nervous.

"I would appreciate it if you could be on your best behavior tonight." The King said softly.

"Why, whatever do you mean? Are you insinuating something of my character, your highness?" Reaver chuckled, the King's reluctance to deal with him was adorable sometimes.

"I mean it, Reaver. I don't need you shooting anyone whenever it strikes your fancy. We still don't know much about the Mystics, and until we figure out if they are truly innocent then we need to keep them close."

Before he had a chance to respond, an excited murmur rising from the lower rabble down the cobblestone street. Someone shouted "They're here", and moments later just as night was truly descending on the land, carriages began to pull up.

Reaver studied them curiously, they were so different from the one's used here. Tiny, delicate black vines were haphazardly scrolled along the outside and luminous flowers adorned the four corners at the top. Equally as strange they were pulled by two beasts that closely resembled horses except for they were...,well more ethereal with slender horns curving away from their skulls just behind their ears, and red eyes that glowed dimly.

Out of his peripheral he saw Rastaban break away from a group of nobles to his right and approach the first carriage, his long hair slicked back into a low, neat ponytail. As he put his hand to the door, the excited buzz among the people hushing swiftly. The Mystic smiled, clearly loving the crowds reaction, and then announced in a loud voice.

"Presenting the Ruler of beauty and protecter of the rose, our Mystic Charm Lord Asellus." And without further adieu he opened the carriage door wide, bowing deeply at the waist as a figure emerged from the darkness within.

Vaguely Reaver could hear a few gasps come from the noble's gathered, but it didn't quite register. His eyes widening in surprise, this he had not expected.

With silken waves of hair the color of a blue green ocean and full sensual lips painted an icy pearlescent pink, the person who stepped down with Rastaban's help was mind numbingly stunning. Clad in a shimmering light red dress, ropes of delicate gems hanging gently off dainty shoulders, and a braided rope of spun gold secured at a slim waist, the Charm Lord was the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on.

The delicious absurdity struck a wicked smile onto his face suddenly. Oh yes, the ruler of mystics would most definetly find her way to his bed, he'd make certain of it. It seemed that Reaver had just met his latest conquest.


End file.
